


Sanguinary (Undergoing Editing)

by Corsako



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, M/M, Seduction to the Dark Side
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 08:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16970910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corsako/pseuds/Corsako
Summary: Harry Potter runs away from the Dursley's in the summer prior to his sixth year, and sets off a chain of events that change the fate of the world."It simply deals with unpredictability in complex systems. The shorthand is the Butterfly Effect. A butterfly can flap its wings in Peking and in Central Park you get rain instead of sunshine." - Ian Malcom





	Sanguinary (Undergoing Editing)

**Author's Note:**

> Undergoing some editing to better fit with the recently written chapters. You can thank VelvetDemons for the sudden interest in finishing my story by reading their story, Your Poison Kiss. 13/10 would recommend. Best written porn award.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetDemons/pseuds/VelvetDemons
> 
> I'm not kidding. You owe my finishing on porn.

_**Sanguinary by Corsako** _

_**Chapter One: Escape**_

****

It is the fourteenth of July, half past three in the morning. The new moon, the first of three, not the true new moon, provides no light from its place in the sky, and only a few lucky stars are even able to shine through the haze of thick storm clouds. The sky seems more grey than black with its cloud cover, dark and ominous, promising the powerful storm to come. For the moment the rain only drizzles lightly, tiny dots of water falling to the ground slow enough it doesn't seem to dampen the earth for long, but it leaves the air chilled. It isn't the cold of winter, but rather the kind of crispness only a summer storm can bring. The unexpected kind of cold that sets in deeply; leaving the people outside uncomfortable, numb, and aching without putting anyone in danger of freezing.

Harry Potter has no business being outside in this weather. He shouldn't be in this park, sitting on one of the squeaky swings, shivering in the cold wetness of the night with only the light from the flickering of a street lamp on the edge of the park to keep him from total darkness, dim buttery orange light coming and going in buzzing flashes. He should be asleep in his bed, curled up under his too thin blanket on his uncomfortable mattress, where his only complaint would be because of the chill from having the only room that doesn't heat in the house. There should be an order member on guard outside the house, making sure he stays there, making sure he is as safe as the abusive environment of the Dursley house can make him.

However, they assigned the wrong guard, one who drunkenly fell asleep giving Harry the perfect opportunity to get as far from his relatives as fast as possible, with only his most precious of belongings, the £500 he stole from his uncle's saved vacation money, and the extra £47 he stole from Dudley's secret cigarette stash in his sock drawer.

Lightning strikes in the distance, and Harry absently counts the seconds until the rumble of thunder breaks through the near silence, forming a strange medley; a low rolling drumbeat to accompany the rhythmic howl of the wind blowing, the sqealing of merry-go-round turning, and the jangling and clanking of the swing next to him, chains hitting the side bars. The storm is miles away yet, but it's still too near, and getting closer with every minute that passes. Harry debates for a second whether he should turn back around and pretend he never ran away at all, hope that Mundungus is still sleeping soundly in the yard, but the idea is less appealing to him than staying out in the rain all night and catching a cold, or his death. They'll have to drag him back, and he does not plan to make that easy for them.

He'd rather die.

Still, at the very least he needs to get out of the rain to gather his thoughts, think up an actual plan beyond getting away from the Dursleys. He doesn't actually wish to die, but he doesn't want to curl up in the playground tubes. He has too many memories of being trapped inside those tubes with one or more of Dudley's friends holding his arms at one end, while someone else held his legs, and Dudley poked a sharp stick at him through the holes in the sides, or banged loudly on the plastic, or even a couple more memorable times, peed on him, leaving him nowhere to escape from the pain and humiliation. The tunnel really is the only covered area of the park though, so Harry sluggishly gets off the swing and begins walking again, hoping to find somewhere to rest again, or to form a plan, and soon.

His fingers ache, shaking from the cold and from the lack of a proper meal, or any food beyond a few table scraps and a couple stolen bites of leftovers from the trash, since he came back from school. He has lost almost ten pounds in the last four days, from starvation and overworking himself with little sleep. It leaves him cold and shaking, and his baggy clothes do nothing to protect him from the frigid conditions or the the increasing downpour of rain. Soon the rain starts to pour in a fast torrent of icy water, soaking Harry to the bones in minutes, and the boy who lived takes shelter by pressing as close to a building as he can.

He breathes deeply, closing his eyes, and when he opens his eyes to take a look around he is leaning on the side of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry stares in open mouthed confusion. He knows without a doubt he was no where near London. It takes hours to get from Surrey to London, he wasn't even half way there. It is raining even harder here than it was in Surrey, if that is even possible, so Harry shakes himself out of his thoughts and quickly makes his way inside.

****

The warm dry air inside seems to wrap around him like a cozy blanket and Harry shivers, not from the cold, but from the warm air caressing his cold wet skin, buttery glow bathing him. He walks to the counter, no one seeming to recognize him, and asks Tom for a room. The barkeep gives him the room he requests without questions, taking muggle money for a small fee Harry can easily pay, a substantial chunk of his money going to paying for the room for the next three nights. He does not seem to recognize Harry either, and he is grateful for the rain making him look like a drowned cat because it hides his identity like a mask, his wet hair flat and covering his scar. He gives the barkeep a false name for good measure when asked, Evan after his mom's surname for his given name, and Jameson because he is his father's son for his surname. It feels a bit obvious, he needs it to be obvious so he he won't forget it, but Tom either doesn't notice, or doesn't care.

Harry takes the key to his room and makes his way up the stairs and down the hall to room 13B. Harry made sure to request a room with a shower and a view of the Alley, and that is exactly what he gets. Its small, same size as his room with the Dursleys, with a large window overlooking the flooded cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley. The wood floors are dusty, but the queen size bed is clean and has new blankets.

He thanks the maid who walked him to his room and buys a small meal to have sent up in an hour.

Harry spends the next forty five minutes sitting in the shower with the water so hot it leaves his skin red and fills the room with steam. He dries off and dresses himself in the warm dry clothes left on his bed, his own clothes having vanished as he was in the shower. They are simple robes, similar to his school robes in design, the only difference being the lack of colors; just a plain white button up, a black vest, black slacks, black tie, and black robes. Nevertheless, the clean, and more importantly, dry clothes are greatly appreciated.

Clothed and comfortable, Harry eats his breakfast. It is a simple meal, just a glass of orange juice and eggs benidict, but it is the first real meal he has had since Hogwarts and it feels like a feast because of this. As he eats he unpacks his few belongings, laying them out on the bed around him, then decides better of it and repacks everything neatly in his bag. He may have paid for the room for now, but that doesn't mean he should unpack all of his valuable items into a room where he may not be able to control who comes and goes. At the very least there are housekeepers, such as whoever took his clothes as he bathed. He doesn't wish to lose anything, let alone have to deal with the possibility of thievery.

Harry checks his watch. It's only a quarter till six. Harry has only been up for four hours, not very long at all, and he isn't really all that tired, though he certainly wouldn't say no to a pick me up. As if summoned by his thoughts there is suddenly a french press, a glass pitcher filled with hot water, a couple bags of earl grey tea, a small tin of coffee grounds, a tall black mug, a pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar cubes sitting on a silver tray on the nightstand. Harry debates tea for a minute, but he has never been allowed coffee. Sirius once gave him a few sips of his while Molly wasn't looking, and Harry remembers liking it, though it was very strong and bitter. Harry brews the coffee in the french press, remembering how he'd seen Sirius do it, and pours it into the mug with cream and sugar. It's smooth, sweet, a little too sweet, but Harry feels more awake after a single sip. He suspects there is magic involved but he has no complaints about it. Next time he'll add less sugar.

He finishes his coffee while he gathers what he needs, and then he leaves the room, locking it up behind him.

****

He enters Diagon Alley through the portal and is grateful it is not raining any longer, just sprinkling barely. He has to step carefullyto avoid puddles. His plan is simple; get money and go shopping. Harry needs school supplies, but he also needs a new trunk, clothes that aren't the single shirt and pants he was wearing, or the robes he is borrowing, blank notebooks, quills, potion ingredients, owl supplies, and so much more. Most importantly, Harry needs a way to disguise himself, to protect himself from Voldemort, and perhaps a second wand so he can do magic without the trace noticing. There is only so much that can slip through the cracks in such a magical place, a small, itty bitty fraction of magic that can be hidden in plain sight, but if he is not careful he could be found and forced back to the Dursleys. For all he knows they already know he is gone.

He decides that clothes are at the top of the list, right after the bank, but before the disguise. He needs school robes, everyday robes, and battle robes if those even exist. He needs some form of protection in his every day life now that Voldemort is back.

Harry felt for sure he'd be caught at the ministry almost a month ago during their battle, he was positive Voldemort would be seen at the very least, and that no one would be able to deny that Voldemort was back, but the dark lord and his troops escaped too soon with the prophecy. Harry doesn't even want to fathom how bad things could have turned out for them, for him, for Sirius, if the adults hadn't gathered them all up and apparated them all out of the ministry before they were caught. Voldemort has stayed quiet, same as he had in fifth year, but Harry doesn't assume it will stay that way. Soon, his attacks will grow bolder, and Harry suspects he will announce his presence to the world, or he'll come for Harry.

If he wishes to stay in plain sight without the so called protection of the Dursleys, he needs to disguise himself. For that he needs to go to Knocturne Alley, where his borrowed robes will not be enough, and his muggle clothes could get him killed.

With a vague plan formed, Harry heads directly to the bank. Without his key, Harry has to prick his finger with a blade so they can prove his identity through blood, but the Goblins start acting oddly shifty once he does, and they direct him to a small room off to the side. Harry sits in the silent room, more than a little concerned. He wonders if they know he ran away, though they didn't seem to care when he'd claimed to be Harry. He does not have to wait long before he is joined by an official looking goblin by the name Brakebill.

"Do you know why you are here, Mr. Potter?" He asks. Harry shakes his head, and the goblin sighs. "I suspected as much."

He lays out several navy blue folders of different sizes on the table on top of a thick book, then opens one to reveal a piece of paper covered in an aray of charts. He opens the thickest folder to what looks to be some form of contract. The next he can't make out more than his name and date of birth.

"You are here, Mr. Potter, because you signed a legally binding contract on October 31, 1994." He says.

Harry shakes his head. "I think I would have remembered that." He insists. "The Goblet of Fire chose me to compete in the Triwizard Tournament, but that is only thing that happened that day."

"That is the contract I am referring to." The goblin taps his nails on the desk.

"Oh." Harry nods. "Then yes, I guess I did, but I didn't sign anything. I was chosen. I didn't have a choice."

"You were a minor, Mr. Potter." Brakebill explains to him patiently. "You could not be bound by any form of contract without the permission of your magical guardian. Surely your guardian explained to you the ramifications of choosing to compete in the Triwizard Tournament?"

Harry shakes his head again, frowning in confusion. "I don't have a magical guardian." He says slowly. "And I didn't choose to compete, I was forced to or I'd have lost my magic."

A flash of an expression dances across the goblin's face for a moment and he scribbles something down in another folder.

"Every witch or wizard has a magical guardian." The goblin reveals. "In your case, guardianship should have been passed to your primary godfather after your parents passing. However, with him in Azkaban for murder, your secondary godfather being deemed unfit to raise a child due to his affliction, and your tertiary godfather unwilling to take responsibility for you, your guardianship was reverted to the ministry, and then to the Headmaster of Hogwarts once you started attending school."

Harry frowns deeper at that. "Dumbledore is my magical guardian?" He asks.

"Yes." Brakbills nods. "When your name came out if the Goblet of Fire you were still a minor. It was Dumbledore's job as your magical guardian to explain to you that you were not bound by the contract unless you chose to compete. By choosing to compete in the Triwizard Tournament you were declared a legal secondary adult."

Harry stares blankly until he explains. "You were given certain liberties that you would have otherwise been given at seventeen." He says. "Unrestricted magic access, the ability to sign your own contracts, access to your family vaults, and complete culpability of your actions, criminal or otherwise. You still may only claim lordships and any parliamentary authority upon your twenty-first birthday, same as any adult, and you will have to wait until you are seventeen to legally drink or to claim heirloom rings, emancipatedor not."

Harry's head hurts, reeling from the implications. "I didn't know about any of this."

Brakebill shrugs. "I doubt you were ever meant to." He muses. "Abusing the privilege of magical guardianship is a serious crime. Had it been clear that your rights had been violated, Dumbledore would be serving ten years in Azkaban. Your guardianship would have passed to your tertiary godfather again, but had he denied it again it would gave been passed back to the ministry until a suitable guardian claimed you or you reached your age of majority, whichever came first. However, do to Dumbledore's machinations, it wasn't known until now that your rights were denied. In the eyes of magical law, you chose to compete in the Triwizard Tournament, and in doing so you were legally emancipated. At this point there is nothing we can do. Dumbledore might get a slap on the wrist and lose some sway with the council but nothing else would come from a trial. More than likely, it would be you who would be hurt by a trial."

Harry takes a moment to collect his thoughts, then asks, "Who was my tertiary godfather? I know Sirius Black was my primary godfather, I can figure out pretty easily from the clues that Remus Lupin was my secondary godfather, but I don't know about the third. Please don't tell me it's Peter Pettigrew."

"It is not Peter Pettigrew, though your father and mother fought about it." Brakebill says. "In the end it was her choice who to assign as your godparent, no matter how your father complained. She named Severus Snape as your tertiary godfather."

Harry grimaces. He's not sure what would have been worse, the Dursleys, Pettigrew, or Snape. At least Snape seems like the type who wouldn't betray his friends or shirk his duties as a godparent. Then again he had denied raising Harry so what does he know. A thought forms and Harry hesitantly brings the question up. "Is it possible that Snape isn't aware he is my godfather?"

Brakebill opens his mouth, closes it, frowns. He shuffles through some papers, frown only getting deeper. "He never came in to sign away his guardianship of you. He sent a letter." He states, slowly and deliberate. "It was the duty of your parents to inform him of their decision, but they only named your godparents a week prior to their deaths. It was the first moment they got since they spent much of their time on the run. It is possible that he was never informed, but then someone else would have had to send a letter denying guardianship of you."

So either Snape was an even bigger asshole than Harry realized, which was not entirely implausible, or Dumbledore manipulated events to gain guardianship of Harry for some reason, which sounded like a nefarious plot from a book, and not something that could happen in real life. Harry rubs his eyes with his palms.

"I suppose I could ask Snape." He sighs. "At least I'd know, one way or another."

"I believe that would be wise." Brakebill responds. "Though, unless he was particularly uncareful, I doubt we will be able to prove if Dumbledore had a hand in this. If we can prove it, we can start building a real case against him. Hearsay is inadmissible in the court of the law, but it becomes viable if we can find evidence of other crimes he has committed against you and others."  
Harry nods. "I doubt you called me in here to talk about magical guardians," he notes, "which means I'm here for something else."

Brakebill slides the thick folder to him. "We need you to sign these papers." He says professionally. "Read through everything on your own, but basically this contract details your responsibilities as an independent bank member, gives you permission to revoke access to your accounts and vaults, and signs you over as the primary or only owner of the listed vaults and assets in your name. I'll get Griphook to change the locks, and new keys will be issued to you and any other parties you allow access to. As a secondary adult, until you reach seventeen you are allowed into the main vault, but you may not remove anything other than money without permission and supervision from a bank member. Once you come of age you could empty every vault you own and walk out and no one could legally stop you, though I strongly advise against that."

With that he slides the smallest navy folders across the table along with the thick black book. It has a small navy ribbon poking out of the pages an eighth of the way, folded over three pages and tucked back inside, and intricate golden clasps. "You can keep these. The folder contains your bank portfolio, the second is a ledger going back to the opening of the Potter Accounts. The ribbon marks your transactions, or transactions made in your name, since your birth."

Harry spends the next four hours going over the contract, his portfolio, and his ledger with the goblin. By the time he has finished he is tired, hungry, and sore from sitting in the same position for hours. His fingers are cramped in a way that brings back memories of detention with Umbridge.

"Before you leave, we are beginning to convert to a card system similar to what the muggles have. We hope to be completely paper free in ten years." Brakebill tells him. "It is much more secure than a money pouch. You would simply sign a slip of paper, swipe your card in one of the readers we have distributed, and your money would go from your vault into theirs. All transactions would be recorded magically in your ledger, but if you needed to keep your identity secret you could request that feature. I highly recommend it."

Harry signs up for the cards, black with a plum border for the Potter vault, dark grey with a navy border for the Black vault, and a pearlescent silver with a gold slash across the middle for his trust fund. Each card reads his name as Harrison James Potter-Black, his full legal name, in embossed gold lettering. He puts them all into a new wallet along with his loose cash, left as muggle money so he can afford his muggle necessities. No longer needing anything else from the bank, Harry thanks the goblins and leaves.

****

Clothes shopping is much more complicated than he had expected.

When Harry had left the bank, he had been under the delusion that it would be as easy as walking in, grabbing some clothes, and walking out. The shop girl had laughed at his floundering and brought out the owner to help. There are more than just school robes, everyday robes, and battle robes. There are everyday school robes, formal events school robes, dress robes, business casual robes, casual robes, and each of them has the potential to be just as protective as traditional dueling and battle robes depending on the fabrics he chooses, all with their own styles.

Harry has a migraine from it all, and it isn't being helped by the fact he still hasn't eaten. He almost wishes he'd gone to the place he normally goes to, rather than this tiny shop at the opening of Knocturne Alley. He runs his hands over a swatch of protective fabric meant to line the insides of his clothes. It's silk light, softer than cashmere, and the writing by it says it is magically resistant as well as impervious to blades.

"What is this one?" He asks.

"Dragon wing skin." The man responds. "Hebridean Black. It's far more useful than scales or hide, which everybody else is so fond of. The wing of a dragon is ten times as strong as it's scales, not to mention how easily sewn it is, unlike hide."

Harry nods, then orders three sets of school robes, two formal, two dress robes, three business casual, six sets of casual robes, two sets of battle robes, and one set of dueling robes. All in black, all lined with dragon wing, in the finest materials available for each set. He orders shoes in dragon hide, tough and durable, two in casual style boots, one knee high and one calf high, and one in a formal style.

Clothing paid for and tailored to fit, charmed to grow with him for up to five years, with instructions to deliver his clothes to his room at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry dresses himself up in a set of casual robes, and leaves and with a recommendation for an optometrist and cosmetologist.

****

He goes to the optometrist first, fitting himself up for a set of contacts, as well as some new glasses. He had never quite realized how badly his glasses were suited for him. He'd had the same set for years, taped up and broken. The overly large round glasses had never done good for his face, not like the thin rectangles they fit him for, thick black rims doing wonders for his uniquely green eyes.

Without glasses, Harry looks even better. He gets a set of contacts for regular use, and another to help disguise himself, changing his eyes from bright green to a deep dark indigo without comprising his sight, and he almost can't recognize himself. If it weren't for the lightning scar splitting open his forehead like cracked glass under his bangs, and his messy hair, standing up worse than usual as the wetness from the rain dries, he wouldn't even need a disguise.

Eyewear paid for, Harry heads to meet the cosmetologist, who he makes swear on her life, so she can't reveal his identity, before he shows his scar to her, same as he'd done with the optometrist.

She gives him makeup to cover his scar, a form of magical cover up meant for cursed scars specifically that makes his skin where the scar is meant to be smooth without leaving his face one monotone shade of color.

After showing him how to apply it, the woman washes his hair and starts cutting it, talking to him the whole time about random things. When she's done styling it she hands Harry a mirror. It's cut short in the back and sides, getting longer the more up and to the front it goes, and his bangs are still long enough they will cover his scar when it's not covered by makeup. She refers to it as an uppercut, grinning lazily. His hair is still kind of ruffled and wind swept, but it's tamed by the new style and cut, leaving him looking more like his sixteen years than the shaggy mop of rioting curls he had before. He pays her and leaves a substantial tip.

With his new clothes and haircut, plus the change of eye color and the covering of his scar, Harry no longer needs a disguise. He realizes this as he strolls back through Diagon Alley, towards Knocturne again, on his way to the next destination on his shopping list. Ron and Hermione both walk right past him, chatting together like nothing is wrong, and Harry almost has a heart attack, so convinced he's been discovered that he drops his wallet. Hermione bends and picks it up, complimenting his hair, and the two walk away without so much as a backward glance, leaving him standing in the street staring after them like an idiot. A small part of him is upset by the way they can not recognize him, but for the most part he is relived. If his two best friends can not recognize him, he doubts even Voldemort would be able to. He still plans to get a better disguise,  but he supposes a couple days won't hurt.

Harry gets himself a chai tea latte at the corner café just outside of Knocturne Alley, then continues on to get himself a new trunk. He chooses a compactable one with three deep compartments, two library compartments, and a wardrobe compartment. On the ouside it is sleek and small, black leather exterior with copper clasps and six round amethysts circle the lock. He has to press the one he intends to open before unlocking it, as well as give his password, or it won't open. He has two passwords. Golden Snitch, for two of three compartments, one of the library compartments, and his wardrobe. Then the same password, only this time spoken in parseltongue, for the last two compartments. He has a feeling he will need some extra privacy given that he is no longer sure if he can trust Dumbledore any more.

****

Harry continues his shopping expedition, returning to Knocturne Alley for another wand from Borgins so he isn't defenseless. The shop is just as creepy as he remembers, but he mimics the stance of the only other customer, standing tall and haughtily, and he walks up to the counter.

Deepening his voice to disguise it, Harry clears his throat to get Borgin's attention, then speaks, "I understand that this is the place to go for a spare wand."

Borgin smirks. "Back wall, left side." He directs. "To the right of the gentleman browsing the bookshelves."

Harry thanks him and heads back as directed. On one of the dusty glass shelves is a battered wicker basket with a faded tag reading  _Discarded Wands_. Each has a white tag reading the price. He pulls the basket off the shelf and sets it on the table between the glass shelves and the bookcase. It knocks a book off the table, drawing an annoyed glance from the man next to him. Harry smiles sheepishly and picks the thin brown book up, glancing at the title. It is written in a different language, Japanese maybe.

"Sorry, sir." Harry says, scratching the back of his neck, momentarily startled by the unfamiliar shortness of his hair.

"That's quite alright." The man answers in a smooth voice. It is vaguely familiar.

Without any reason to continue conversing with the stranger, Harry turns his attentions to the box while the other man turns back to his books. There have to he nearly sixty wands in the basket. He plunges his hand into the basket and shifts the wands around.

Harry stops as his hand brushes a wand in the discards and he grabs it, warmth flooding his body. He gives it a whirl and a rainbow of tiny pearlescent stars burst overhead. It's pretty, he notes, with smooth black wood, a thick band of silver on the wand shaft below the handle, and a spherical purple crystal the size of a large marble on the haft. It's long too, a good three or four inches longer than his holly wand had been. More importantly, it fits him almost better than his holly wand does.

"A Halvorson creation no doubt." The man comments. There is an odd tone to his voice Harry can't place.

Before Harry can so much as blink he nimbly plucks it out of his hand, and clearly it reacts well to him as well judging by his facial expression, and he casts a spell on it. The wand glows indigo and then the light curls into the air in pretty cursive letters. 14.5 inches, Ebony, thestral tail hair, elements of silver and amethyst.

"Halvorson?" Harry asks, curiosity momentarily getting the better of him, his finger itching to snatch the wand away.

The stranger gives him a stern look, as if unused to being questioned, but he answers nonetheless. "Heimo Halvorson. He was a wand maker from Norway. He only made around fifty wands before his death in 1349. The majority of his wands were destroyed by the ministry when it became illegal to add metal and crystal elements to wands in 1693, but clearly one, at least, survived."

Harry turns a grave eye to his wand, entirely too unique for comfort. The man doesn't notice his discomfort and continues to appraise his new wand with glimmering black eyes.

"Thestral tail hair is an interesting choice. I've only heard of one other wand with a thestral tail core, and it only exists in legends. It's associated with death. Appropriate for a necromancer, odd for a school child. Amethyst is too for that matter, it has associations with the spirit world and death as well. Ebony and silver both represent balance." He lectures all the while never looking away from the wand.

The hunger for power and rarity in his eyes makes Harry buzz with adrenaline, ready to snatch the powerful wand from his hands and snap it in half for the sake of the world, but he hands the wand to Harry without even a sideways glance, apparently satisfied. Harry thinks Voldemort would kill a lot of people for such a unique wand.

"There's certainly more than meets the eye about you, isn't there?" It's not really a question, rhetorical at best, but Harry shrugs in answer in an attempt to make himself seem less than he is.

"I always thought that I was pretty simple." He smiles. "An open book, really."

He smirks. "We shall see, won't we Mr. Potter?"

He leaves with his arms full of books in a twirl of black fabric and Harry stares after him long after he leaves, feeling vaguely frightened, and then shakes himself off to pay. It isn't until he's outside that the realizes that the stranger knew who he is.

****

After the disturbing encounter in Borgin and Burkes, Harry heads to Diagon Alley for general school supplies, books, owl supplies for Hedwig even though he still has yet to see her since releasing her to run away, and so much more. It takes hours to shop, he still has to order some things, and it all gets delivered to his room, or promised to show up by morning. It's starting to get darker by the time he is done with the Alley and he heads to London for spiral notebooks, multiple colors of ball point pens, muggle clothing that fits him, and several other things he needs including toiletries. He has only a couple pounds left in the end.

Several hours later, an exhausted Harry Potter heads back to the pub with his bags. It's nearing midnight by the time he finally arrives back at the Leaky Cauldron. He doesn't even try to put anything away, having been up and moving constantly for just over twenty two hours. Harry just drops his bags, removes his contacts, brushes his teeth, changes into his new pajamas, and flops bonelessly onto the bed.

He falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

His dreams are dark and confusing. He's running in a forest, chasing after a ghost white fox with glowing eyes. Harry catches up to it, but it is standing over a pale bloated corpse in a shallow sour brook. The corpse looks horrifyingly like himself, chest ripped open to reveal its organs. His dead body sits and opens ruby eyes.


End file.
